


Shot Through the Heart

by interlude



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 03:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interlude/pseuds/interlude
Summary: Murphy is scared to get a flu shot, but meeting Emori might make it worth it.Prompt from doortotomorrow on Tumblr! Who asked for Murphy scared of getting a shot, but getting completely distracted by the beautiful nurse, Emori.





	Shot Through the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the cheesiest thing ever, I apologize.
> 
> I don't share Murphy's opinions on Luke Skywalker, but he seems like more of an Anakin fan. And an Evil Dead fan.

“Letting someone stick a sharp piece of metal in my arm isn’t worth it,” Murphy says.

 

A snort comes from inside the fridge, where Bellamy is half-buried, searching for something to eat. He’s probably going to make one of his gross health smoothies, Murphy thinks.

 

“You’ll think it’s worth it when you’re sick and miserable again this year,” Bellamy says as he emerges with – yup, there’s the kale. Murphy makes a face at it. Bellamy rolls his eyes when he notices. There’s a long-standing war in their apartment between Murphy and kale. He only tried to throw it away once, though – you only have to wake up to your angry roommate dumping a bucket of cold water on you in retaliation one time before you learn not to touch their stuff, no matter how much you think it doesn’t belong in your kitchen.

 

“Who says I’m going to get sick?” Murphy argues.

 

“Your shitty immune system.” The roar of the blender temporarily interrupts the conversation. Murphy watches the ingredients mash together into a lumpy, green concoction with a disgusted fascination.

 

As soon as it shuts off, he replies, “Is there really any proof they work, though?”

 

Bellamy sighs. “You’re being ridiculous; I know children less scared of needles than you.”

 

Murphy bristles at that. “I think I have a healthy wariness of people sticking things through my skin.”

 

“Go get a damn flu shot, Murphy,” Bellamy says, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. “I don’t want to listen to you sneeze and complain all winter again.”

 

He clearly thinks he’s won the argument, because he takes his gross smoothie and disappears back into his room, where his dissertation awaits. Murphy hasn’t seen inside of his room for a few weeks, but he imagines it’s littered with papers, literary classics, and empty smoothie cups, which are pretty much the only thing Bellamy’s been eating for the past few weeks.

 

Normally Bellamy is the tidier of the two, but right now Murphy wouldn’t bet on it – at least the take-out container in _his_ room is just from two nights ago; who knows how long some of those smoothie cups in Bellamy’s have been in there, hidden amongst the graduate student’s never-ending notes and mountains of books?

 

Murphy makes a face at his roommate’s closed door, but it isn’t as enjoyable if Bellamy can’t see it. The implication that he’s _too scared_ to get a flu shot rubs him the wrong way. Personally, he thinks he just has a strong sense of self-preservation. But thanks to Bellamy, he looks like a coward if he doesn’t go.

 

Damn it.

 

With a groan, Murphy stands and grabs his car keys.

 

This is going to suck.

 

\--

 

There’s only one other person in the waiting room – a frail, old woman who looks like she already has one foot in the grave and is desperately trying to beat off Death with more shots and doctor’s appointments. Or so Murphy thinks.

 

She keeps coughing and sneezing into the flowered handkerchief she keeps in her purse. Murphy eyes her warily from where he sits on the other side of the room, with as much space between them as possible. Every time she sneezes, he instinctively leans further back in his chair, trying to dodge the germs she keeps spitting into the open air. Bellamy wasn’t exaggerating about his shitty immune system; every time an illness goes around, it always ends up latching itself onto Murphy and leaving him miserable and aching for days or weeks at a time.

 

But in between the woman’s coughs and sniffles, all Murphy can think about is the needle that’s about to go through his arm. Or his – no, surely his arm, right? Flu shots go through your arm.

 

He thinks.

 

It’s been a long time since he’s had one, and, probably as a result, though he’s quick to suggest there’s not enough hard evidence to prove correlation whenever Bellamy brings it up – to which he only receives eye rolling – he’s gotten the flu every single year.

 

Still doesn’t make it worth it.

 

Murphy’s stomach rolls at the thought. He clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth. His left foot is tapping out a frantic beat against the tile floor, the knee attached bouncing with the movement. The _tap, tap, tap, tap_ echoes through the nearly silent waiting room.

 

His eyes keep flickering between the sneezing old lady and the door. Murphy’s self-preservation instinct is urging him to get up and walk out right now before they call his name, but his pride keeps him rooted in his seat. Bellamy will never let him live it down if he can’t make it through one shot.

 

“John?”

 

Murphy jumps slightly, startled out of his thoughts, and his stomach plummets to the floor. He turns towards the voice like a man approaching a firing squad – slowly, white-faced, and shaking slightly – and sees the young woman standing in the doorway with a clipboard clutched in her right hand.

 

And completely forgets about the shot.

 

She’s beautiful, in the sort of rugged and _real_ way Murphy is usually attracted to, with a squared jawline and dark hair pulled back into a messy braid. Even from here he can spot a mostly faded scar on her cheek, carved below her left eye in a hook shape and raising her olive skin into a slightly puckered ridge. Pretty girls with badass scars are apparently a weakness of his, because he can’t stop himself from staring.

 

The woman raises an eyebrow. Murphy realizes he’s been sitting silent for far too long, looking like a complete creep. He jumps to his feet.

 

“Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s me,” he stutters. Heat rises in his cheeks; he knows without looking that a red blush has bloomed in his cheeks, standing out starkly against his pale skin. Embarrassment swirls alongside the already present nausea. Murphy knows he’s not the ultimate Casanova, but he’s usually smoother than this.

 

He rubs at his nose in a nervous gesture.

 

The woman’s lips quirk into an amused smirk. There’s a hint of mischievousness there, resting in the corners of her grin. Murphy feels himself fall a little bit harder.

 

“Follow me,” she says. He crosses the waiting room as quickly as possible and follows her through the door.

 

The clinic is small; she leads him to a room directly adjacent to the waiting room and gestures for him to take a seat on the chair. “Roll up your left sleeve, please,” she directs.

 

“My name is Murphy,” he says in response, and immediately looks away, using her direction as an excuse to avoid her eyes and fumble with his sleeve.

 

“I thought it was John.” He chances a glance up; she’s smiling as she prepares a needle.

 

“It is.” He attempts to keep his voice steady and unbothered, but he’s not sure he succeeds. The needle is _right there_. “John Murphy.” As soon as he says it, he realizes that his name is written on the clipboard now sitting on the countertop. She already knows. She’s messing with him.

 

“John wasn’t cool enough for you?” she asks as she walks towards him, carrying the needle ever closer. He’s not sure which is the better option, at this point – stare at her and continue to make a fool of himself or watch the needle. Is it better to watch your incoming doom or let it surprise you?

 

“Well, there’s a lot of Johns.” His voice rises in pitch as he talks, keeping his eye on the needle while also trying to look like he’s not eyeing it at all. This woman gives people shots for a living; he’ll never have a chance with her if she sees how completely terrified he is right now.

 

No, not terrified, he assures himself. Reasonably concerned.

 

She comes to a stop in front of him and grabs hold of his arm with her free hand, the needle still held in her right. As she does, he notices her left hand for the first time.

 

“Woah,” he says without thinking, because a complete lack of a filter or tack is one of his defining characteristics.  

 

Light from the overhead fluorescents catches on the black plastic. The prosthetic is a combination of plastic and metal, the joints and gears exposed rather than covered with a layer of fake skin.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Murphy notices the woman stiffen. The other hand – the real one – tightens its grip on the needle. He glances up to see her face and notices that the smile is gone, her lips held tight in a rigid line. Her brown eyes are guarded, and he senses that there’s a level of distance between them now that hadn't existed previously, even though she’s physically closer to him than before.

 

“Badass,” he says reverently. The tension in the room snaps and clears.

 

She smiles. It’s a shyer smile than her earlier ones, a little embarrassed maybe, a little softer. Her eyes flick down to his arm and she busies herself with prepping it.

 

“I’m serious,” he continues. “You’re like Ash from Evil Dead.”

 

Her eyebrow quirks upwards in a silent question. “He had a chainsaw hand,” she argues, and honestly the fact that she even knows that means he should just propose right now.

 

Murphy grins. “Yeah, in Evil Dead 2. In Army of Darkness he gets a metal hand.”

 

She snorts, rolling her eyes, but she’s grinning as she does so. “Ash,” she laughs. “I haven’t heard that one before. I get Luke Skywalker a lot.”

 

He scoffs. “Nah, Luke Skywalker’s lame. Ash is way cooler.”

 

“You think I’m cooler than Luke Skywalker?” she teases.

 

“Way cooler. You’re, uh – you’re very cool,” he stutters and wishes the ground would swallow him up right here before he gets a chance to say anything else. He’s sure he’s had greater seduction techniques than assuring a girl she’s cooler than Luke Skywalker – which isn’t even that great a feat, honestly, no matter what Bellamy says when they start that argument.

 

Apparently it doesn’t bother her, though, because she grins and says, “My name’s Emori.”

 

“Emori,” he repeats, smiling. It’s pretty and unique and it fits her – and she’s seen the Evil Dead and has a sense of humor and likes teasing people and has a badass prosthetic hand and a badass scar and, honestly, he thinks he’s already a little in love with her.

 

“All done,” Emori says suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. She sets the needle aside and presses a cotton ball to his arm.

 

Murphy blinks, confused for a moment, and watches as she carefully places a Band-Aid over the cotton ball. “Wait, you did it already?”

 

“Yup," she assures him, not even looking his way as she puts the needle away. "You’re good to go.”

 

He stands awkwardly, a little thrown by the fact that he completely missed the moment he was dreading all morning and hesitant to leave. He wonders if he should ask her out – maybe ask if she’d want to watch Army of Darkness with him so he can point out Ash’s hand.

 

Then again, he had also stammered out stupid compliments and generally made himself look like an idiot in front of her, and he probably has chance at all. She probably thinks he’s a dumbass. 

 

“Uh, thanks,” he chokes out awkwardly and leaves, beating himself up about it before he even reaches the parking lot.

 

 


End file.
